Mason said, "I never saw a politician get so much out of his last name since the Kennedys. Anybody who can campaign on the slogan 'Let the Sunshine in Kansas City ' with a straight face wouldn't break a sweat solving a murder."
Harry freed himself long enough to get two cups of coffee from a machine against the wall. He handed one to Mason as he shoehorned himself back into his chair.
"The people elected him," Harry said. "William 'Billy' Sunshine. His Honor the Asshole."
Mason sipped and grimaced. He was an occasional coffee drinker, never quite developing an appreciation for the bitter brew.
Harry said, "Get yourself some cream and sugar. Make it sweet like when you were a kid. You'll like it better."
Mason set his cup down on Harry's desk. He didn't know whether Harry intended his remark to be a gentle paternal reminder of their long relationship or just idle chatter. Mason realized that he'd eventually have to convince Harry that their relationship was irrelevant to this case. He wasn't looking forward to that moment.
"It's fine," Mason told him. "The mayor been pushing you guys on this case?"
Mason intended the question to sound casual, even innocent-more concerned about Harry than about the implications for the "rush to judgment" defense he was already planning for Blues.
Harry gave him a wise smile. "Lou, I'm going to handle this case like every other one. It doesn't matter to me that Bluestone is the defendant or that you're his lawyer. I'll tell you what you're entitled to know and that's it."
Mason felt like the little boy again. First Harry told him how to drink his coffee, and then Harry told him that he's not so clever after all.
"Fair enough," Mason said. "Tell me what I'm entitled to know, but don't leave anything out because it won't be fun for either one of us if I find out some other way."
Harry shuffled through a stack of reports on his desk, humming under his breath until he found the one he wanted. He put on a pair of gold-rimmed glasses and studied the report.
Mason had been on the edge of many of Harry's cases, like a spectator with a front-row seat, listening to Harry's take on the bad guy of the month, his no-good defense lawyer, and the ball-busting judge. The one thing Mason always marveled at was Harry's command of the details, the nitty-gritty. Harry didn't miss much in an investigation, and he forgot even less. Mason had no doubt that Harry knew everything about Cullan's murder by heart and could recite it backward in his sleep. Harry's current display of seeming unfamiliarity was a dodge meant to encourage Mason to underestimate him. Mason figured he was doing it more out of habit than out of any expectation that Mason would take Harry too lightly.
Harry put the papers back on his desk along with his glasses. "Housekeeper found the body when she came to work on Monday morning around eight o'clock. She had a key. The alarm was off, which surprised her. Cullan ate breakfast in Westport every morning with a bunch of his cronies. He was never home when she got there and he always left the alarm on. She figured he was sick and went looking for him."
"Where did she find him?" Mason asked.
"On the floor in his study with a.38-caliber bullet hole in his right eye. Your client was a good shot."
"Or the killer was just lucky," Mason said, not taking the bait. "Did the coroner fix the time of death?"
"That part is a bit tricky. The killer turned the heat off and opened the windows in the study. You could have hung meat in there. The cold temperature makes it tough to determine the time of death. Coroner says that it could have been any time from Friday night to Sunday night."
Mason said, "That's a lot of ground to cover."
"Maybe," Harry said confidently. "But we detectives like clues and we found some good ones."
"Don't make me beg, Harry."
"Too soon for that, Lou. Begging comes during the sentencing phase. Cullan's bed was made, hadn't been slept in. The housekeeper says she made the bed on Friday. The Saturday, Sunday, and Monday newspapers were on the driveway and the Saturday mail was in the box. Cullan was popped on Friday night. Your client wasn't as smart as he thought."
"Any signs of forced entry?" Mason asked, ignoring Harry's jab.
"No."
"How did you get to Blues?"
"We traced Cullan's movements last Friday. His secretary, Shirley Parker, kept his schedule. Shirley says that he was in meetings all day and that she had made reservations for dinner for two at Mancuso's."
"I assume his secretary knew who he was having dinner with," Mason said.
"You assume right. Cullan had dinner with Beth Harrell. She's the one who's head of the Gaming Commission. So we talked with Ms. Harrell. She said that she and Cullan had gone to dinner and then stopped at Blues on Broadway to listen to Pete Kirby's trio. She wasn't real busted up about Cullan."
"She used Kirby's name?"
"Yeah. So what?"
"You've got to be a hard-core local jazz fan to know Pete Kirby's trio. That's all. Did she tell you anything else?"
Harry grinned. "That's all she told us the first time we talked to her. Kirby and his guys gave us a blow-by-blow on the fight she and Cullan had at the club and how Bluestone broke it up. My favorite part was when Bluestone threatened Cullan."
Harry hadn't said anything about the scratches on Blues's hands. Mason didn't know whether Beth Harrell or the musicians hadn't noticed the scratches, or whether Harry was holding out on Mason, waiting for him to raise the subject.
"So you went back to Beth Harrell and jogged her memory?" Mason asked.
"Early morning is a good time to question people. She didn't have her makeup on yet and the bruise Cullan had given her was just turning yellow. She said she didn't tell us about the fight because it was too embarrassing, but she did say that Bluestone scared her more than Cullan."
"Why was that?"
"Because Cullan was old and mean but she could handle him. When Bluestone threatened Cullan, she didn't think anyone could handle him."
Mason said, "None of that places Blues at the scene."
"We're working on that," Harry said. "Try this for starters," he added, tossing the coroner's report in Mason's lap.
Mason scanned the report, his stomach sinking when he found the information he knew would be there. Blood and tissue had been found under Cullan's fingernails. According to Blues's police department personnel file, the blood type found under Cullan's fingernails matched Blues's blood type.
"C'mon, Harry. You talked to four witnesses who saw Blues grab Cullan from behind to stop him from beating up Beth Harrell. Cullan scratched the backs of Blues's hands. He's still got the marks. You've got to do better than that."
Harry didn't hesitate. "None of the witnesses saw Cullan scratch your client's hands. They only saw him squeeze Cullan until his eyes started to bug out."
"That doesn't change a thing, Harry," Mason said. "They just didn't see the scratches. I'll bet none of them told you that they looked at Blues's hands afterward and didn't see any scratches. Because you didn't ask them that question. Did you? Your case sucks without something that puts Blues in Cullan's house Friday night. Tell me what you've got, Harry!"
Harry listened as Mason turned up the volume, his blank expression giving no clue whether Mason's suddenly antagonistic tone bothered him, whether he had the evidence Mason was demanding, or whether he'd even heard a word Mason had said. Harry waited until the silence pressed down as heavily as unspoken bad news.
"I've got enough that the prosecuting attorney was happy to sign the arrest warrant. He says he might ask for the death penalty. Your client's first court appearance is tomorrow morning at nine in Associate Circuit Court."